GREGOR POV
The next day.
The council chamber smelled of old parchment and steel polish, the kind of scent that made my wolf bristle. It was too clean. Too staged. Like every word said here would be etched into stone—or used to hang a man.
And yet here I was. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Marigold.
I could feel the heat of her through the ridiculous silk gown they stuffed her in this morning. It brushed against my arm whenever she shifted even slightly. And she shifted a lot—deliberately, I knew. She was playing Margaux, the spoiled royal bride-to-be, all wide eyes and little huffs of annoyance. But to me? Every brush of fabric was fire.
“Alpha Gregor,” one of the old councilors with silver hair and a sneer cleared his throat. “We ask again—how did rogues infiltrate the banquet
